


Love Is Not Enough

by itsacoup



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pining, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 16:23:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2315888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsacoup/pseuds/itsacoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Paul,” James says, suddenly sounding sober and on the edge of tears, like after a bad loss. “Paul, are you listening? I love you, why are you so far away, why did they do this to me when I love you so much?”</p><p>Paul throws the phone across the room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Is Not Enough

**Author's Note:**

> I waffled for about a week about posting this, because it's disgustingly self-indulgent rather than genuinely interesting and it was also titled "Paul Martyr-n, apparently" in my writing folder. And then I thought to myself, "Self, what is fandom for if not crying together over the terrible things in life that happen, terrible being any event ranging from Crosby smiling in a particular way through the _worst, most emotionally devastating trades ever?_ " So there you go.

It’s two months after the trade, almost to the day, before the phone call Paul has been dreading comes.

 

It starts as expected--”Paulie, Paulie, where are you? Oh god, I’m sooooo drunk right now, how did this happen? Shit, I think the TV’s possessed, Paulie you need to come help me,” but it ends in a way that leaves Paul feeling shattered, rough edges scraping at the lonely house around him.

 

“Paulie, Paulie,” James sighs on repeat five minutes later, because the kid just word-vomits when he’s wasted, thankfully instead of actual vomiting. It should be annoying as hell, and it sort of is, but it’s also endearing and Paul’s contemplating hanging up to save his sanity when it happens.

 

“Paul,” James says, suddenly sounding sober and on the edge of tears, like after a bad loss. “Paul, are you listening? I love you, why are you so far away, why did they do this to me when I love you so much?”

 

Paul throws the phone across the room.

 

The next morning, looking down at the shards of his phone screen in the carpet, Paul admits to himself that he may have slightly overreacted. It’s wasteful to break a phone just because James was trashed and talking shit again, and the fact that he could afford several hundred new phones before he has to worry about his finances doesn’t make him feel any better.

 

Breakfast is quiet, windows open to catch the breeze and the birdsong. Paul stares down at his food, eyes stubbornly avoiding the empty spot at the breakfast bar.

 

\--

 

Of course, because life is cruel sometimes, the Pens play at the Preds early in the season. Paul hasn’t heard directly from James since the phone call until a week before the game. All the text says is _dinner?_ and Paul ignores it for five hours, completely incapable of dealing with the thought of seeing James.

 

Finally, the guilt of being rude overcomes everything else, and Paul grudgingly responds. _Pick somewhere nice_ , he texts, and then immediately, _That means better than whatever the Nashville equivalent of Le Mont is._

 

 _stop hating on le mont, it’s awesome_ , is the response, and Paul breathes a sigh of relief.

 

They get in the day before the game, taking an early morning flight from Detroit to Nashville. After practice, Paul checks his phone and sees a message from James. _u staying at the hilton dntwn?_

 

_Yeah. I’ll be ready by 6, that okay?_

_k. ill come get u, meet me in the lobby_

 

Paul is distracted by the fallout from a Duper prank, which sparks a fight that lasts back to the hotel. It turns physical in the elevator, Beau trying to throw himself at Duper, and Duper hiding behind Paul. Letang swings in to save Paul and then offers him a fistbump and “D-men forever,” which he gratefully returns.

 

Paul undresses mechanically for his nap and does his best to think about anything but the rest of this evening. When he wakes up, his head is blissfully blank. Then he remembers he’s having dinner with James, and his heart pulses uncomfortably, thudding at his ribs and shortening his breath.

 

The outfit he’d dithered over while packing is already laid out, like it hadn’t taken him an hour and a half to decide to bring it, “it” being a fairly unremarkable polo and nice jeans. Paul pulls it on, dips in the the bathroom to rearrange his bedhead into something that looks purposeful and swish mouthwash, and heads down five minutes early.

 

Amazingly, James is already there, shuffling his feet and staring towards the bank of elevators. He must catch sight of Paul, because he visibly brightens, and the awful painful thump of Paul’s heart returns. They walk towards each other, and there’s an unbearably long moment where Paul isn’t sure if a hug is going to happen. His mind desperately races to try and figure out the least-weird response but James apparently senses the turmoil and doesn’t reach out, though he does give Paul the side-eye.

 

“Paulie, man, so good to see you,” James enthuses, and Paul mumbles something to that effect back. “The restaurant is really close, you okay with walking?”

 

“Yeah, sure, it’ll do me good to stretch my legs,” Paul says, and they turn towards the doors. There’s a pause, long and terrible, and Paul despairs of himself and how ridiculous he’s being. “So, do you want to start with the gossip, or should I?” Paul asks awkwardly, but James throws his head back to laugh and immediately rattles off into some ridiculous tale he heard from Mike Fisher who heard it from his wife who got it from some connection in LA about one of the Kings’ cup days. It’s very convoluted and poorly told. Paul smiles at it anyway.

 

By the time they reach the restaurant, they’ve settled into trading stories about teammates. Paul looks at the sign next to the door and can’t hold in a snort. “Kanye Prime? Really? This is what you’ve sunk you?”

 

“It’s Kayne, don’t be a jerk,” James mutters, ducking his head. “We can go somewhere else, I have a backup.”

 

“No, no, it’s fine,” Paul hurries to reassure, cringing at how quickly he managed to destroy the easy mood. “I just, ah, can’t read, apparently.” He attempts a thin laugh, and James picks his head up again, smiles a little, and Paul feels relief settle his shoulders.

 

Dinner is--well, it’s great. Paul gets a Wagyu steak that is deeply, unfairly delicious. He spends a lot of time pretending he hasn’t noticed that almost all of the other patrons are couples out for a Friday night date. Paul also puts forth his best effort to talk about the team, or listen to James sharing how he found his feet in Nashville, rather than talk about himself.

 

They’ve both cleaned their plates and are splitting a cheese board for dessert when James awkwardly clears his throat. “Sounds...sounds like the team is doing well,” he says, uncomfortable and soldiering on about it. “But how are you doing?”

 

“Oh, you know,” Paul says lightly, dropping his eyes down towards his plate, fussily cutting at a piece of cheese. “Same old, same old.”

 

“That hardly means anything, Paulie,” James pleads, pulling his napkin off his lap and dropping it on the table. Paul stares at James’ hand, fingers buried in the linen, knuckles nearly white enough to match. “I--don’t you get that it matters? I want to know, honestly, how you are, Paulie.”

 

Paul’s eyes jump to James’ face at the raw sincerity he hears, and--oh, shit. The expression James is wearing is enough to make Paul’s soul shrivel, and his immediate panicked realization is _James meant what he said when he called_. Shit, shit, _shit_ , Paul’s mind supplies, and then thankfully his mouth takes over.

 

“That’s the truth, Nealsy,” Paul says lightly, dropping his hands to his lap to conceal how they’re shaking. James’ self-preservation instinct is for shit, so Paul’s going to have to do it for him. He knows in that moment that nothing good can come of this, and it’s up to him to keep them both in one piece.

 

“Wake up, play hockey, go to bed. That’s pretty much it,” Paul finishes. James looks disappointed--god, this is literally the worst, but he’s got to extract them from this pseudo-date ASAP--and Paul manages to derail the whole thing by asking for the check.

 

They’re silent the whole way through paying the bill and walking back to the hotel. James stops in front of the hotel doors and turns to Paul, clearly plastering on his smile. “Good to see you, man,” he says, grabbing Paul’s shoulder and shaking him a little.

 

“Good to see you, too,” Paul says back, and hopes it’s dark enough to conceal how pale he feels. “Go get a good night’s sleep so you’re ready to get the stuffing kicked out of you tomorrow, yeah?”

 

James laughs a little and lets go of Paul’s arm. Paul turns to go into the hotel, and he tells himself he imagines James lowly saying “I miss you,” as he walks through the doors.

 

\--

 

For a few months, Paul is free to wallow in his own misery in blissful solitude. James doesn’t text, doesn’t call, and anytime he’s brought up in a conversation, Paul incidentally has somewhere else to be for a while. Paul should be embarrassed about how lovesick he’s acting, _is_ embarrassed, but he just can’t stop, no matter how many stern lectures he gives himself about manning up and moving on. It’s pitiful, but that’s his life now, apparently.

 

On February 1st, the Predators are scheduled to play at Consol, and Paul feels ill every time his phone chimes in the two weeks leading up to the game, convinced it’s going to be James. Three days before the game, Paul finds out why he hasn’t heard anything.

 

“What do you mean, already have plans after a game?” Scuds asks incredulously, frozen halfway through taking off his hockey socks. “You’re not allowed to do that! It’s team time!” Scuds finds team time very, very important; hardly anyone else agrees, at least to his level of rabidity about it.

 

“Have plans,” Geno insists, disappearing briefly as he pulls off his jersey. “Preds fly in Friday, everyone have day off Saturday. Promise Lazy we go out after Devils game, get schwasted.” Geno says “schwasted” with no small amount of pride (and spittle), which means someone recently taught it to him. Paul despairs about the kind of people he spends the majority of his time with, and tells himself he’s it’s for the best that James already has plans, that he won’t be seeing James expect for on the ice.

 

What a goddamn shame he isn’t right about that.

 

Paul is very happily asleep at one in the morning after the Devils game. Or at least, he had been, up until the moment when his doorbell started ringing nonstop. “Fuck everything,” he moans into his pillow, and waits for whoever is mashing his doorbell to stop.

 

Then his phone starts ringing. “All right!” he bellows, mostly to make himself feel better, because there’s no way anyone could hear him over the ruckus. Paul stomps downstairs and throws the door open.

 

“What the fuck, do you not understand what goddamn time it is right now?” he snaps, and then the scene in front of him registers. James and Geno are draped against each other, somehow both concurrently holding the other one up.

 

“Paulie!” Geno shouts, and Paul says goodbye to whatever little hearing he had left. “Look, brought you present! Here!” Geno shoves James at Paul, and Paul is forced to either catch him or watch a career-ending concussion injury go down on his front stoop.

 

“Okay, see you. Good time, Lazy. Bye!” Geno scampers off to the car idling on the curb, and Paul can’t hold in a groan of frustration as he drags James bodily into the front hall so he can close the door. He has to reach around James to lock the door, because James is currently, well, cuddling into his chest is probably the best way to put it.

 

“Hey, Paulie,” James says, sounding a little breathless, and he peers up at Paul’s face to smile.

 

Je- _sus_.

 

Paul carefully disengages himself, leaving James standing--swaying--unsupported. “Hey, James,” Paul says as neutrally as he can. “You’re pretty drunk, huh? Why’d Geno bring you here?”

 

“I needed to be brave, so I drank,” James says, face crumpling from the fuzzy smile into something bordering on tragic, “but now I’m drunk and you won’t believe me. Again.”

 

Paul spends a moment entertaining the thought of doing what James wants. He could admit out loud that his life is miserable for James not being there, and that it’s harder to roll out of bed when there’s no one else to make breakfast for. Say “I love you, too,” and kiss his stupid, drunk face, tease hands through hair that seems a little droopier these days until it takes on the proper shape.

 

Instead, he does what James needs. “Come on James, let’s get you some Gatorade while I call a taxi,” Paulie says, hating the way James curls into himself.

 

“Okay,” James says, his voice so small and quiet. He follows Paul into the kitchen, totally docile, and stands behind Paul, huddled, arms hugged tight around his own ribs like a child. Paul ignores the instinct to wrap his arms around James, whisper to him that it’ll be alright. Paul knows it won’t be, if he does that.

 

Paul pulls a Gatorate out of the fridge, holds it out, and James slowly reaches out to take it and crack the top. Next up is the Uber app on his phone, and Paul resists the urge to hurl it at the ground when he gets confirmation of a driver. Tantrums will get him nowhere and the phone is still practically brand new, not even six months old.

 

He regrets his maturity when he gets a text from Geno at an impossibly early hour the next morning when considering the inebriation level Paul witnessed last night. _Sooooo?_ the first reads, and then _I’m best, right? Good night? ;)_

 

Winky faces. Grown men sending texts with winky faces. Paul debates not even responding based on that alone, but the likelihood of Geno escalating this to unreasonable levels to get what he wants is too great.

 

 _Once I got back to sleep, yeah. Got Nealsy packed up and sent back to his hotel before I crashed though,_ Paul finally settles on. Geno may be the master of playing dumb to avoid interviews, but sometimes the tactic works on him.

 

 _!!!!!??????!?!?!!?!?!??!?!_ is what Paul gets back, and he barely has time to look at it before his phone rings.

 

“What that mean,” Geno asks flatly when he picks up. “Lazy not there?”

 

“He was really drunk, Geno,” Paul says, hoping he can pull this one off. “I gave him a gatorade and got him an Uber. I hope he’s still sleeping off his hangover, because it’s got to be vicious.”

 

There’s a long pause, and Paul tries not to hold his breath. “So,” Geno says slowly, “then...you see Lazy today? Because too drunk last night?” He sounds hopeful. God help Paul.

 

“Probably not. I have some errands to run today, and James didn’t say anything about his plans. I assume he’s busy.” Paul picks up his glass of orange juice to drain it, hopes that did the trick.

 

By the strangled, enraged noise emanating from his phone, apparently not. Paul twitches, his whole body spasming in a fear response because that sound usually means someone’s going to get the shit beat out of them, and he nearly drops the glass. When Geno remembers how languages work, he shouts, “Why you play dumb? You think is funny? I’m help Nealer, I’m tell him you care, say yes if ask. Know you want to say yes, whole locker room know you want to say yes! But say no, no, no, now Nealsy sad alone in hotel. Why? You think, too good for him? You think, being happy is stupid? Why not be happy, make Nealsy happy?” Geno screams to himself a little more and hangs up.

 

Well. That could’ve gone better.

 

Paul realizes the conspiracy goes deeper than it seemed when he walks into the dressing room on Sunday and is immediately treated to skeptical looks from Sid and Duper in addition to Geno.

 

Duper announces, “Paul Martin! Just the man I was looking for,” and mugs him straight into the showers.

 

“...Can I help you?” Paul asks. Better to get it over with.

 

“Well, as a matter of fact, you can,” Duper says, clapping a friendly hand to Paul’s shoulder. “See, I know this guy. He’s a pretty good guy, kind of a little brother to me, you might say. He’s got a problem.”

 

“Would you just cut to the chase?” Paul asks, impatient. “I’m the same age as you, the ‘good cop dad’ routine isn’t going to work here.”

 

“He’s got this _problem_ ,” Duper repeats, grip tightening on Paul’s shoulder. “Now, this problem is, say, this tall,” he waves his other hand at the level of Paul’s head, “red-head, American, and a _total fucking asshole_.”

 

Paul can nearly feel his bones creaking from the crush of Duper’s hand. “It’s none of your fucking business, is what the problem is,” Paul says, gritting his teeth at the pain. “I’m doing what’s right given the situation.”

 

Duper lets go, eyebrows flying up near his hairline. “What’s right? What’s _right_? What gives you the right to make that decision on your own, rather than together?”

 

“Because we’re not a fucking couple,” Paul snaps, backing away. “We’re individuals, and I’ve made my own decision. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go do my damn job.”

 

They win, 4-2, but Paul feels hollow and wrung out.

 

\--

 

The rest of the season is fine. Paul performs well on the ice but feels himself disappearing everywhere else. He still tries to be encouraging, lead by example among the d-men, but he can’t face the team at social gatherings. Sid and Duper and Geno all stare at him too much the first time he tries to go out after the second Preds game, and that in addition to his new and total disinterest in being around anyone else at all is the death knell of his joke of a social life.

 

Instead, he spends all his time at home, ignoring the empty spaces that beg to be filled.

 

They’re just a few games out from playoffs when the media starts making noise about Paul’s contract. Paul knows, given the last few years, he could probably eke out another two or three year deal somewhere, maybe even in Pittsburgh, to keep mentoring the blue line. He doesn’t expect to hear anything official about it yet, actually hopes he doesn’t, because he has no idea if he would want it.

 

Sid corners him after practice one day in a trainer’s office. “I’m not--nobody sent me, nobody asked me to do this,” he starts with, which in Paul’s mind is never encouraging. “I just have a couple of things I want to say, and you don’t need to have an answer, just think about it.” Sid waits, and Paul makes a ‘go ahead’ motion with his hand.

 

Sid starts in on what sounds like a well-rehearsed speech. “You’ve had a solid year, and I know the team and hopefully the organization would agree and want to keep you. However, I think you need to prioritize your happiness, and I’m not sure this is the right spot for you in that way anymore.”

 

“I don’t--” Paul starts to protest automatically, and stops. “I love this organization, and the team, and what I’ve achieved here,” he says, quieter. “I don’t think I know where the right spot is for my happiness.”

 

Sid nods, grabs Paul by the biceps, shakes him a little. “Maybe you should figure out what you need to be happy. And who,” he adds pointedly, letting go. Paul sighs and scrubs his hand across his face.

 

“Yeah. Thanks, Sid,” he says, and a flip switches in his mind.

 

A week later, Paul calls his agent, tells him this season is it and to get in contact with University of Minnesota’s hockey organization to see if they have a spot. The next call is to a friend that’s a realtor in Minneapolis.

 

He knows it won’t be this easy to move on, but at least he can try.

 

\--

 

Paul’s phone rings just as he’s finished arranging the living room. It was the last to be set up, and he eyes the couch, unhappy with the markedly empty space along the left side, cushions collapsed a little from the hundreds of times someone has flopped on that section and whined “Paulieeeeee.” Time to go furniture shopping.

 

He answers the phone without looking at the caller ID, saying “Hello?” while most of his attention is still on the couch problem. His mom really liked the new recliner she got from that one place, maybe he’ll go there--

 

“I just want you to know, I’m really fucking mad you,” James says, in the particularly clear and deliberate way that means he’s once again drunk dialing Paul, and Paul freezes. “I don’t understand why you’re being such a dick, and I feel really hurt that you’ve retired and run away to Minnesota because you either can’t cope with your feelings for me or can’t do hockey without me.”

 

There’s a pause and a little scuffle on the other end of the line as Paul’s mind races. “There,” James says to someone on his end, “Was that good? I used ‘I’ statements and everything.”

 

Faintly, someone else says, “Yeah, good job, champ. You maybe came off a little strong there at the end, though, huh?” Their voice is too distant for Paul to be able to tell who it is.

 

“Go sober up, James,” Paul says, heart thundering. This is the first time he’s heard James’ voice since February, and he’s trembling at the sound of it. “I know it’s the summer, but it’s only just noon. Take it easy, yeah? Gatorade and ibuprofen sooner rather than later.”

 

“Oh, fuck off,” James snarls, entirely unexpected. “You can’t have your cake and eat it too, you asshole. Don’t try and take care of me like that and then pretend you’re doing it because we’re friends. Now it’s your turn to nut up or shut up.” Paul hears a faint “uh-oh” from James’ end of the line, and he feels himself break completely.

 

“I’ve been doing the right thing, James,” Paul says as calmly as he can manage, clutching his hand into the back of the couch until the skin across his knuckles stretches tight. “It’s not a situation that has a happy ending. There’s just--too much to work against, so it’s better this way, staying friends. Sometimes people could be good together, but they can’t be, because of things outside their control. That’s life.” Paul wonders who he’s trying to convince.

 

“And because of that, none of it fucking matters?” James asks, incredulous, voice high and loud. “Because you’ve already decided it’d be impossible, you wouldn’t even try? What kind of--of--chickenshitted bullshit is that?”

 

“The kind that will make you move on faster and find the right person, instead of me,” Paul says.

 

“You don’t have to martyr yourself for me! I’m here for you to have, I’m ready!” James screams.

 

“Yes I fucking do, because if I don’t, I’ll be the person who breaks your heart!” Paul screams back.

 

There’s a long, long beat. “I don’t think I’d love you if you were that kind of a person,” James says, quiet and confident.

 

All the fight drains out of Paul. He feels old, and tired, and sad, the furthest thing from whatever fairy tale romance James has in his head about them. “Just--give up, Nealer,” Paulie says, walking around the couch to sink down into the cushions. “Move on. I already have.” In the breathless silence that follows, Paul takes the phone down from his ear and delicately presses the ‘end call’ button. Gently, so gently, he places it face down on the coffee table before tipping over to lie on the couch.

 

He’s amazed he hasn’t been struck by lightning from the enormity of the lie he just uttered. That’s his last fully-formed thought for hours.

 

The next day, Paul’s alarm goes off early. He sits up in bed, sets his shoulders. He’s a responsible adult, starting the next stage of his life. From here on out, he’s devoted to the kids, to Minnesota’s hockey team. He reminds himself this was exactly how he wanted to start his retirement.

 

Throughout the morning, his eyes remain fixed on the task in front of him. He doesn’t look at the half-mussed bed, or the empty kitchen, or the couch devoid of people with ridiculous hair. He certainly doesn’t meet his own eyes in his reflection as he’s brushing and shaving.

 

“You’re doing the right thing,” he says to himself, and pulls out a block of sticky notes to write a reminder to go look for a new couch.

  
The amazing thing is, even after all these months, it still doesn’t feel like the right thing. Paul does it anyway, and hopes that someday it will.

**Author's Note:**

> I lurk on tumblr at [itsacoup](http://www.itsacoup.tumblr.com). It's kind of a graveyard of reblogs right now but I'm all about chatting and prompts, if you'd like to say hello.


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